Page 22 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Norma glances at me. "Absolutely! Two of our little ones need some holding time. Their parents can't be here until evening."

She leads us into a room where we put on sterile gowns over our clothes. The fabric drowns Skye's smaller frame, making her look even more delicate next to me.

"Anything I need to know before we go in?" she asks quietly, watching me tie my gown.

"Norma will show you but there’s nothing to it. They're tiny, but not as fragile as they seem."

The NICU itself is dim and quiet, with soft beeping from monitors and the occasional gentle alarm. Six incubators line the walls, each containing a tiny baby. Norma leads us to two incubators in the corner.

"This is Evan," she says, gesturing to a baby that can't weigh more than three pounds. "And this is Marie."

Norma explains how to hold them, though I already know the drill. She lifts Evan from his incubator, a bundle of wires and tiny limbs, and places him carefully against my chest. Despite all the times I've done this, the weight of him—so light it's barely there—still surprises me.

I watch as Norma helps Skye with Marie, showing her how to support the baby's head and avoid disturbing the various tubes and monitors. Skye's face changes as she holds the infant —a softening, something so deeply feminine and beautiful that I can't look away.

We settle into rocking chairs side by side. The babies make small sounds against our chests, their bodies rising and falling with impossibly tiny breaths.

"They're so perfect and complete, just… smaller," Skye whispers after a long silence.

I nod, gently rubbing Evan's back in small circles. "That's what always gets me. All those fingers and toes, the eyelashes, everything's there. Just needs time to grow."

Skye's eyes are fixed on Marie's face. "I always assumed I’d have children," she says so quietly I almost don't hear her. "It was part of my plan, you know? Get a good job, find the right person, then have a baby by thirty."

Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "You've still got lots of time," I say gently.

She nods, a small smile touching her lips.

"I know. It's just... when my parents died, something changed in me.

I realized how quickly it can all fall apart.

How nothing's guaranteed." She strokes Marie's cheek with one finger.

"And then Daniel... I thought he was the one I'd have children with. And you know how that turned out."

"Life has a way of taking detours," I say. "Doesn't mean you won't get where you're going."

She looks up at me then, her eyes searching mine. "Did you ever want kids?"

The question catches me off guard, though I should have expected it. "Yeah," I admit. "With my ex-wife. We tried for a few years, actually. Didn't work out—the kids or the marriage."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Things happen the way they're meant to." I adjust Evan slightly as he squirms against my chest. "These little ones fill that space for me now. Not the same, but it’s still something real."

We sit in silence after that, each lost in our own thoughts, the weight of tiny lives in our arms grounding us in the moment.

Norma checks in periodically, adjusting a monitor or jotting notes on a chart.

At one point, she catches my eye across the room and gives me a thumbs-up while nodding toward Skye. I pretend not to notice.

After about an hour, Norma returns to take the babies. "Time’s up," she explains. "They both need to be fed."

Carefully, we hand the infants back. Watching Skye reluctantly release Marie, the tenderness in her movements, a thought flashes through my mind—what she might look like holding our child.

The image is so vivid, so unexpected, that it knocks the wind out of me.

I turn away, pretending to adjust my gown, needing a moment to compose myself.

"Thank you for the hats, Buck," Norma says as we prepare to leave. "And Skye, it was lovely meeting you. Come back anytime."

"I'd like that," Skye says, her voice warm. "Thank you for letting me hold Marie."

Outside in the hallway, Skye is quiet, thoughtful. I give her space, understanding that holding those tiny lives can stir up emotions you didn't know were there.

"Thank you for bringing me," she says finally as we reach the truck. "It was... I don't have words for what it was."

"I know," I say simply, because I do. "That's why I keep coming back."

The drive back from the hospital is quiet, but it's a comfortable kind of quiet.

Skye gazes out the window while I keep my eyes on the mountain road.

Something shifted between us back there, holding those tiny lives.

I can feel it in the way she sits beside me now, relaxed and open, like we've known each other for years instead of days.

"Are you hungry?" I ask as we pull into my driveway.

Skye turns to me, a small smile playing at her lips. "Starving, actually."

"I've got steaks in the fridge," I say. "And some fresh vegetables from the farmers' market."

"You cook me lunch and I may never want to leave," she says lightly, but something in her voice catches and makes my heart thump harder against my ribs.

"That a promise?" I ask, keeping my tone casual even though the question isn't casual at all.

Her eyes meet mine, steady and clear. "Cook for me and find out."

Inside, I move around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator while Skye explores my living room. I can see her examining the bookshelves, the artwork, the small treasures I've collected over the years.

"You have a first edition Hemingway," she says. "Ford would be jealous."

"That was a gift," I reply, slicing red peppers into thin strips. "I'm more of a Twain man myself."

She appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a glass of water I gave her earlier. "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?"

"Life on the Mississippi," I correct. "Though The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn's a close second."

She watches me work, her eyes following my hands as I season the steaks with salt, pepper, and herbs. "Need help?"

"Nah, I've got it. But come keep me company."

She slides onto a stool at the island, chin propped on her hand. "Where'd you learn to cook?"

"Grandma Sadie again," I say, heating oil in a cast-iron skillet. "She believed every man should know how to feed himself properly."

"Smart woman."

"The smartest." I lay the steaks in the hot pan, the sizzle and aroma filling the kitchen immediately. "What about you? Do you cook?"

She laughs, the sound warming me more than the stove. "I try. Nothing fancy. My mom was the cook in our family. She tried to teach me, but I was always more interested in books than recipes."

"I know you miss her," I say quietly.

Skye nods, a shadow crossing her face. "Every day. Both of them. It still doesn't feel real sometimes."

I understand that feeling. When Grandma Sadie died, it took me months to stop reaching for the phone to call her. "Grief's not linear," I say. "That's what my therapist told me after my divorce. Said it's more like weather—sometimes stormy, sometimes clear, but always changing."

"You saw a therapist?" She seems surprised.

"For about a year," I confirm, flipping the steaks. "Best thing I ever did for myself. Helped me understand why my marriage failed, why I kept falling into the same patterns." I glance at her. "Why does that surprise you?"

"I don't know." She takes a sip of water. "You just seem… like you've got it all figured out."

I laugh at that. "Not even close. Just better at hiding the mess than most."

Lunch comes together quickly after that—perfectly seared steaks, pan-fried vegetables, crusty bread from the local bakery. We eat at the small table by the window, watching the birds play in the birdbath in the back yard.

"This is incredible," Skye says, cutting into her steak. "Seriously, Buck. You've been hiding your talents."

"The bar menu doesn't exactly lend itself to fine dining," I say, pleased by her reaction.

"You could change that," she suggests. "Add some specials, expand beyond bar food. I bet people would love it."

"Maybe," I allow. "Been thinking about it, actually. Ford's been pushing for a menu upgrade for a while."

We talk easily through lunch, about books and food and travel.

She tells me about her trip through Europe after she finished college—the cathedrals in Italy, the beaches in Greece, the cafes in Paris.

I share stories about motorcycle trips through the Southwest, about the year I spent working as a cook in New Orleans before coming to Flounder Ridge.

The conversation flows, intermingled with pauses and lingering glances.

"Thank you again for today," she says, setting down her fork. "For sharing that part of yourself with me. It meant a lot."

"Thank you for wanting to see it," I reply. "Not everyone understands."

"I do," she says simply.

Our eyes hold across the table, and something electric passes between us. I reach for her hand, almost without thought. Her skin is soft against my calloused palm, her fingers curling around mine with gentle pressure.

I’ve never wanted a woman more than I do right now.